Clock Face of Ills

by Paige Elizabeth Turner

  I am intrigued as to how Lowenstein found me. I take his call: ‘Yes. I know Mac. Used to work with him at Worcester, although not in the same—’

  He cuts me short. ‘Got a news flash for you. What’s it worth?’

  That’s another thing with crooks. Everything has a value. A name? Fifty quid. An introduction to a fencing circle? A share of the proceeds. I once saw a crook swap a Cornish pasty for one chocolate biscuit. Crooks and chocoholics share a remarkable addiction – they’ll trade anything for their next hit. ‘You wouldn’t have anything of value to me. I’m not in the job now.’

  ‘I know. That’s why I’m calling. Word is, McMaster’s under investigation and you’re a big part of it.’

  I’m constantly perplexed how word travels faster through the underworld grapevine than a village women’s network cultivates gossip and innuendo over husbands’ infidelities. ‘I can’t and won’t do deals. I’ll never be tarred with the brush that’s blackened some of your previous associates.’

  ‘I’m on the level, Liv. Always have been. All I’m interested in is doing my bit for the law.’

  His ‘good citizen’ parody nearly makes me puke. And he called me “Liv”. But I run with it. ‘All right. Go.’

  ‘Got a guy wanting a price on gold. Claims he has an unlimited supply. Mean anything to you?’

  ‘Could. Why call me?’

  ‘Because I’m thinking there’s something sneaky going on behind the scenes. When you have a shifty trying to push merchandise for a third party, I’ve found from experience that things usually turn dirty. If I can nip it in the bud without implicating myself, I’ll do it. All I want is a good word put in of how I helped the coppers.’

  ‘I told you. I’m no longer a copper.’

  ‘But you can see it gets to one.’

  I try to figure his angle. ‘So, you want to do the deal, but if it falls over, you’ll use me as a safety net?’ Such was Marchant’s MO – I just want to hear it straight from Lowenstein’s mouth.

  ‘Miss. I already know you’ve severed all ties. You run a tight ship, if you get my drift. I can give you an opportunity to make up for lost income.’

  Severed all ties, nothin’. I’ll run with it. Could be worth credos from Thornton.

  ‘Okay. I’m up for it. When’s the deal?’

  ‘Soon. I’ll call you.’

  I tell him I’m ‘on the road’, so offer my mobile and landline numbers, and an email address.

  XI

  Detective Sergeant Roy Street snatches the file from his desk. An ‘Urgent Action’ Post-it note curls on the blue cover sheet. He pulls a gold-nibbed fountain pen from his Harris Tweed jacket and scrawls ‘Rec’d April 20th / 2pm’ on both the cover sheet and Post-it note.

  Most members of Worcester CID have never seen a fountain pen, let alone watched someone actually use one – especially a young copper of only twenty-five years of age. It is not a pretentious front; Street stands by his conviction that the fountain pen is an avatar of sincerity. It paints his character: refined, precise and ostentatious, sewn together with a thread of mystique. He rises above the average detective’s 99p bulk pack of blue or black throw-aways in favour of strength and longevity of the historic, cigar-shaped instrument.

  In the field, it is the most impractical implement of modern times. It smudges in the damp and wet, won’t write when upside down, and deposits deep blue splodges inside his shirt pocket. Worse still, he has to blow-dry the ink before closing his notebook. On the positive side, he can leave it on his desk and no one, save an opportunist seeking a few pounds from a pawn shop, would think of stealing it. Street idolises the famed Sherlock Holmes – some colleagues claim he is just as fictional – the fountain pen symbolising Holmes’ quill. He’d even sought a Baker Street rental property – in Worcester – as his dream address, but instead, settled on Barker Street. He is a career go-getter; striving for promotion at every opportunity, studying hard and passing exams, diligently applying himself to enquiries and investigations, and working endless hours to demonstrate his worth to force command.

  He flicks through the file of phone transcripts, witness statements and a coroner’s preliminary report which notes Giuseppe Caruso’s passing was ‘in circumstances not consistent with natural cessation of life’. Gobbledegook. He turns the page: extradural haematoma occasioned by a blunt instrument to the base of the skull. The coroner parenthesised a piece of timber, pipe or similar object as a possible weapon.

  Scene of Crime Officers had photographed the Caruso’s kitchen area as a possible crime scene. The absence of blood, Caruso’s age, and the credibility of McMaster’s observations and knowledge of the deceased, together with Maria Caruso’s account of the situation, drove detectives to circumvent usual procedures and record the death as natural causes.

  Heads rolled after the coroner’s decision hit the desk of the Worcester CID superintendent. Crime officers swamped the Caruso property to re-examine the kitchen – then two weeks after the tragedy – and seized a rolling pin and a wooden cylinder used for storing spaghetti.

  Armed with that information – albeit without forensic results – DS Street grabs the nearest idle detective and rushes to the Caruso property. Maria, when asked if she wants to call a solicitor, replies that she has no need.

  The interview quickly strays from pleasantries to tormenting discomfiture. ‘Mrs Caruso. You told police on April the fourteenth that you found your husband lying on the floor. What did you first do?’

  ‘I’m call his name, he’s no answer so I’m shake him, see if he’s answer. He’s say nothing so I’m run to Mr Mac’s house for help.’

  ‘You’re referring to Phillip McMaster, the policeman?’

  ‘Yes. I’m call him always Mr Mac. He no mind.’

  ‘Good. Then tell me. Was your husband a healthy man?’

  ‘Yes. He’s go for the walks and he’s not smoking the cigarettes. It’s strange when I’m finding him because it’s smell cigarette in the room. I don’t understand, because Giuseppe, he’s never smoke, and Angelo, he has the tobacco, but I’m not letting him smoke in the house.’

  Street motions to his colleague to make a note to check the forensic report for evidence of cigarette butts or ash.

  ‘And you’ve told us earlier that Angelo is your son. Is that correct?’

  ‘Yes. I’m have other sons, but they’re living now in Italy.’

  ‘So what happened next?’

  ‘Mr Mac drive to my house, he’s saying it quicker than run, and he’s check Giuseppe’s wrist for the pulse, he’s saying nothing there, then he’s pushing the chest like lifesaver on the beach and he’s saying “come on Joe, come on Joe,” and he’s look at me and saying call 999 but maybe he’s saying that first. I’m in panic and not remembering when he’s saying exact, but he’s telling me ring 999 and I do that and then they’re coming in the house ten minutes after.’

  Street unravels his brow. He struggles to grasp Maria’s convoluted English and is relieved to not be typing the narrative into a Record of Interview. He continues: ‘What did Mr McMaster do then?’

  ‘He’s make the cup of tea and he’s talk to the police and then he’s going home.’

  ‘Mrs Caruso. I need to ask you this: What were you doing before you found your husband?’

  ‘I’ve been talking to Angelo. He’s going home and I’m going to the bathroom because I’m having too much the cups of tea. When I’m in the bathroom I’m hear shouting, but not words. It was noise like the pain. I know one’s Giuseppe but the other voice, I’m not understand. Then I’m coming back to the kitchen and my Giuseppe’s on the floor. I’m saying Giuseppe, Giuseppe, and he’s say nothing. Then I’m running to Mr Mac’s—

  ‘Yes. Right. Tell me about Angelo. How often does he visit?’

  ‘He’s coming only sometimes in the week. Not often. He’s not having much, what you s
ay, friends with his father.’

  ‘You mean he doesn’t get on with his father? They don’t talk?’

  Maria grimaces. She finds it difficult to find the right words for English conversations, but has no problem understanding that Street has boxed her into a corner. ‘They’re both having strong persons. Angelo’s coming to the house only when his papa sleeps or goes the pub with friend.’

  ‘But you’ve said Angelo left before you found your husband on the floor?’

  ‘Yes. That’s what happen because Angelo’s already go through the door and then I’m going to the bathroom and Giuseppe’s must be come from the bedroom and he’s shouting “not welcome in the house” and when I’m coming back to the kitchen that’s when Angelo’s already gone and my Giuseppe’s on the floor.’

  Street’s mouth creases into a warped smile. The sleeping name on his lips awakes and crystallises as a person of interest. He concludes the interview and circles Angelo Caruso’s name.

  * * *

  DS Street circles the apartment block before rapping on his suspect’s front door.

  Angelo squeezes his head into the half-open entry: ‘Yeah?’

  Street introduces himself and WDC Plumpton. ‘We have a few questions. May we come in?’

  ‘Sure. What about?’ Angelo’s facade of innocence and readiness to assist the constabulary fools no one. He leads the pair to his reception room, where he pushes from a couch a few Men’s Health and bodybuilding magazines, Guns & Ammo, and folded local papers.

  Street remains standing. ‘It’s your late father. When did you last see him?’

  ‘You’re sick. At the fuckin’ funeral of course.’

  Street blushes. A grammatical slip throws him onto the back foot. ‘I’m sorry. I thought you’d accept that I meant before your tragic loss.’ DS Street knows full-well that a guilty person, or one with something to hide, will try to deflect questions from the focal issue – exactly as Caruso has just done.

  Angelo continues: ‘Don’t know what makes you think it was a tragic loss. I rarely saw him. He pissed me off long ago. About a fortnight before he croaked it – I mean that’s when I last saw him.’

  Street doesn’t chide the disrespectful term, but stows it as a relationship blueprint.

  ‘And when did you last see your mother?’

  ‘About a week ago.’

  Street pauses, allowing Plumpton to take notes. ‘You sure? You haven’t visited more recently?’

  ‘No. It’s a fair trip. I took her shopping in Cheltenham, so the last time was April nine. Got a Tesco docket to prove it. I put mum’s shopping on my credit card and she gives me cash.’

  ‘So, you’re sure of that? April nine?’

  ‘Yep. Got no reason to lie.’

  Street’s experience has instilled in him that every suspect has a reason to lie about something. It falls to the smart interrogator to outwit the suspect into admitting the deception. He removes a folder from his leather attaché. ‘I’m going to read a passage from an interview with your mother: “Mrs Caruso. I need to ask you this: What were you doing immediately before finding your husband?” Her answer: “I’ve been speaking to Angelo. He’s going home and I’m going to the bathroom because I’m having too much the cups of tea. When I’m coming back to the kitchen my Giuseppe’s on the floor. I’m saying Giuseppe, Giuseppe, and he’s say nothing. Then I’m running to Mr Mac’s—”. ’

  Angelo throws his hand to his head, faking a flash recollection. ‘Oh yeah, I was there then, but I didn’t see my father.’

  ‘That was April fourteen.’ Street feigns confusion as he sets up Angelo for the big one: ‘But I asked you specifically when you last saw your mother.’

  Angelo throws a stern look: ‘Just a minute. You came in here and said you wanted to speak about my father. You asked when I last saw him and I told you something like “I hardly see him, a fortnight maybe”. Then you ask when I last see my mother. To me, that means when did I last see my mother in context with seeing my father. Don’t try to twist the subject and make it look as if I’ve done something wrong. I know your form, but it won’t wash with me. Yes, I did see my mother on the day my father died – but I didn’t see him.’

  Street carries on: ‘So when you say you last saw your mother on April nine, you weren’t being totally honest with us?’

  ‘Yes,’ Angelo smiles. ‘I was perfectly honest. I did see her on that day.’

  Street casts an exasperated look to Plumpton. Like most detectives on a path to nowhere, he changes tack – a ploy to unsettle the interviewee. ‘Okay, Angelo. Have you seen your mother recently?’

  ‘Yes. I’m helping her with some paperwork,’ he replies. ‘She’s decided that the farm’s too much for her and is selling.’ Angelo slows. Thinks. ‘Perhaps you’re better off speaking to her about that.’

  ‘We will. So tell us how you heard about your father’s injury?’ Street slips in the teaser, designed to elicit information privy only to one or two persons.

  ‘Huh? I didn’t know he was injured. Mama told me on the phone it was a heart attack. I was nearly home when she called my mobile.’

  ‘And what time was that?’

  ‘Easy.’ Angelo pulls his phone from his pocket, flips through a menu. ‘Three fourteen,’ he says, and turns the screen to Street.

  Street flashes a glance to Plumpton. Without reaction, she grasps her colleague’s message: There’s more to this guy than he lets on.

  Street continues: ‘Do you remember what time you left your parents’ home?’

  ‘I had no reason to look. We’d finished our discussion about the lack of family interest in the farm – it was a conclusion of sorts, it was time to leave. If it’s any help, the trip to my place is around forty minutes.’

  ‘Mm. That’d make it 2.35 p.m. That’s all for now. Thanks for your help.’

  Plumpton, remembering her colleague’s prompt during the previous interview, injects: ‘Sorry, one more thing Mr Caruso. What brand of cigarettes do you smoke?’

  Angelo flushes. ‘Rollies. Shit, you’re not going to do me for a bit of weed, are you?’

  ‘We didn’t even know about that, did we sergeant?’

  Angelo farewells the couple, locks the door, and wonders what the hell they are up to.

  The chivalrous DS Street opens the car door for Plumpton. He slots into the driver’s seat. ‘Well, Lor, what did you make of that little sideshow?’

  ‘Cocksure prat. All over the shop. And what about that “seeing my mother in context with seeing my father” crap? Reckon he’s trying to weasel out of something.’

  ‘Yep. Think we’ll have a chat with the illustrious Inspector Mac. Could be an education.’

  ‘He would have made a statement for the coroner, wouldn’t he?’

  ‘Yep. But the rules have changed since the coroner’s report. You know they recently took stuff from the Caruso place for examination?’

  ‘How could I? You’ve buried me in crap shoplifting files.’

  Street starts the car. ‘Call the office. Find out if Mac’s on. If not, try him at home – his number’s on the after-hours list.’

  ‘He’s in the office now. On lates,’ bellows the radio.

  Street yells into the mic: ‘Ask him if he’ll be there for a while. We need to chat.’ And then to Laurel: ‘Ever interviewed an inspector?’

  ‘Only in the college – if that counts.’

  ‘I’m not talking about role play shit. This is for real. We’ll do this by the book. Can’t have the guv in the shit if he missed something. Let’s just hope his observations tally with the Caruso woman’s version. We could also win a further glimpse into Angelo’s movements.’

  Little interaction has passed between Street and McMaster since Street’s recent appointment to Worcester. Such is typical of small offices where ‘sounding out’ periods extend fr
om one week to eternity. Responsibility falls to the new incumbent to ingratiate himself with the troops. Street though, cares nothing for acceptance or rejection.

  Accompanied by his equally withdrawn partner, he approaches McMaster’s office.

  McMaster snaps to attention with a Tom Cruise smile, hand extended ready to welcome a prospective member to the Church of Scientology. ‘Come in Roy. We don’t see much of you. And DC Plumpton. Laurel, isn’t it? What can I do for you? Take a seat, take a seat.’

  Street is fresh, but he isn’t naïve. He’s entertained the door-to-door sellers’ persona too often. False, and easy to penetrate. ‘Thank you, inspector. I’ve copped the Caruso file. Don’t know why. I think you should run it, with respect sir, because you were on the spot, first up.’

  ‘Roy, call me “Phil”, behind closed doors. Not a problem. I think they passed it down the line because the deceased was my neighbour. Thought it’d be too traumatic for me – or a conflict of interest. You’d reckon the hierarchy would know by now that we’re dealing with death every day, right?’

  Street lounges into a chair. Plumpton becomes a lady-in-waiting.

  Street continues: ‘They don’t think like that. It’s all numbers to them. Farm them out, wrap them up, and then table a report highlighting the great solution rate, and at the same time demanding extra funding to “keep up the momentum”.’

  McMaster forces another laugh. ‘Got it in one Roy. So what are you doing? Showing young Laurel the ropes with an easy one?’

  Street turns to the blushing Plumpton and lifts his brows as an advance apology. ‘Yeah, she’s been tied up with shoplifters. Thought I’d show her the real stuff. Just want your thoughts of the Caruso situation. You knew the old man, Giuseppe?’

  ‘Knew him? We were just about related – we’d been neighbours for that long. Six years I think. Pretty much kept to himself. Slowed down in recent times, that’s what age does, not that you two will experience that for a while. Good family man I gather. Couple of kids overseas, another couple married off, and another one who comes and goes. I will say his passing was a surprise. We’d haggled over a boundary discrepancy – which was resolved – and I’d made an offer on his farm. I’d ask you to keep this under your hat: I’m looking at early retirement and going into full-time farming. Could be crops, could be bleedin’ Alpacas – I’m just whizzing things through my head. So, to cut a long story short, I’d seen Giuseppe on a few occasions of late and all seemed hunky-dory. Couldn’t have picked that he’d croak it.’